I don’t want the last pickings of whatever it is you have prepared for the table, leaving me far away, just enough to see, but not reach. I don’t want to watch everyone else enjoy the very best parts of you, while I sit in silence, figuring out when I should jump in to receive your attention. I would scoot over, to another seat, but you’ve strategically placed your friends first, making the seat warm and used. I’ve tried to get up a couple of times, but I noticed your glare from across the table, warning me to sit back down. And like clock work, I comply, hoping this time, you’ll include me.
I sometimes imagine, flipping the table, pouring the wine and fine dining on the faces, clothes and shoes of everyone else but myself. Maybe a mess would get your attention? Maybe frowned faces, and grumpy attitudes would make you rearrange the seating chart, placing me right next to you. Would that change my status? I highly doubt it, even though sometimes, I have hope for better.
I’m reckless in my participation, causing trauma to so many parts of my body. Sitting here in my sorrow, I’m looking down at my plate and I’ve realized that my portion has been controlled. The servers are coming but, they pour less and less, offering small bites instead of a full palate. Under your direction, I’ve been starving. My food is tasteless. There’s no love or soul placed in the meal that has been prepared for me. Now that I can see clearly. Now that I’m tired of repositioning myself to be seen. I freely give up my spot, but this time when I walk away, I won’t even make eye contact. Your eyes will not punish me. In my left hand lies a new menu, with a list of items that are not allowed to be served.
Bare Minimum Effort
Bare Minimum Love
The scraps of your commitment
The leftovers of your heart
The barrel of your affection
And whatever remains …. of your attention.
I am no longer beholden to what you barely give.